


Memoria

by dvske



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Death, F/M, Gen, Grief, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a quiet kind of loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memoria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Day 7 of Transistor Week](http://transistor-week.tumblr.com/), "After"

The picture’s missing.

Red stands jarred by its absence, by the sudden ache that overtakes her as she surveys what remains in the box. An old, wooden box she’s left tucked in the back of their closet until now. Worn with age, containing a sparse few items:

Remnants of a broken urn, its glossy surface patterned with vein-thin branches and bristling leaves. Each fragment is veiled in gauze, the edges dulled enough for her to finger through.

_No…_

A patch of quilt with sunbeam spirals and bumble bees trailing in whimsical patterns. The plush fabric’s been embroidered with care, singing at the seams. Nothing lies hidden within its folds.

_No, no…_

Footprints and fingerprints stamped onto cards, blue paint stark against the white backgrounds. Small feet, smaller hands. She traces each curve with a thumb, imagines delicate skin pressing against her own.

_Where?_

Finely curled hair encased in a glass bottle, a gold ribbon tied around its center. It shimmers in the dim light as she turns it between her fingers. Left, right. A memento meant to lighten the grief.

_Where is it?_

But the picture, gone.

There are others, several others, but not the one she seeks. A year, almost. Ten months these photos have been collecting dust with all the other keepsakes. The same child is in each one. Out of sight, she’s hoped; but the box and its contents has weighed on her mind like a nagging, desperate thought. It’s what drove her here to begin with, what led her into the closet and straight to the box kept just out of reach on the highest shelf.

Thoughts of their boy.

That one picture, his first.

A cherubic face, the head tilted back, mouth slightly parted and eyes slipped shut as if he were in blissful sleep. Almond-colored skin, smooth and swathed in a blanket. So small, that bundled form cradled in her hands. He’d been more beautiful than she expected, more beautiful than any hope or dream she’d carried for his future. A mess of dark hair, the slight bend of his nose, dimpled cheeks. Every feature, reminiscent of his father’s, his mother’s. Their baby, their baby, _my baby boy_ —

Born lifeless into the world.

She sinks to the floor, her grasp on the box growing lax. She lets it land on her lap and stares at it dully, taking out each trinket and picture just to examine them.

Far too long, she thinks. Too long since she’s seen the baby’s face. Too long, she’s been living a splintered version of herself. She and him both. The pain has lessened, yes; but there’s still his hesitance, his listlessness, the thick hush draped around them during once intimate moments. It’s gotten worse, with the anniversary drawing near. He’s tired, so very tired.

They don’t speak like they used to.

_What’s there to say?_

And she remembers.

 

 

_The urn. Whole, held aloft in her hands. Ashes within, the baby’s ashes. A chill threads itself through her body. Her surroundings blur as numbness sets in. She’s standing frozen in the baby’s room, or what would have been his room. Should have been. She’s counting every moment of his life, stolen away. Cheated._

_And a voice in the back of her head, an impulse that bites and bites even as she tells herself to set the urn back on the dresser and leave. She has to leave, has to leave it, why can’t she leave?_

—break it break it break—

_No, no, but the impulse stabs at her, demands response, arrests her with a ferocity that smothers all else._

—BREAK IT BREAK IT BREAK—

_Break, she does._

_She hurls the urn at the wall, screaming her loss. It bursts, an explosion of ceramic and cremains and every pent up emotion she’s denied release. She kicks, stomps, tosses herself forward with abandon. She’s raging through the room, tearing at everything in sight. Slamming, snapping, breaking, broken, surely the world’s broken for such things to happen?_

_Then, a voice in the background. Panicked, calling her name over and over with increasing intensity. Him, fighting to be heard, fighting to stop her in the midst of her rampage. His hands lock around her wrists, and he holds her back before she can rip apart the crib._

He’s gone, he’s gone, why is he gone?

_Then, slowly, she comes back to herself. Rather, she’s burned herself out. She feels him trembling against her, hears his quiet pleading._

_“Enough, Red. That’s enough, it’s enough…”_

_Over and over, like a prayer._

 

They haven’t spoken of it since.

How does one find words apt enough to describe such loss? What other way, than to carve a deeper hollow in one’s heart with precious, final things? Clothes and hair and imprints. Pictures.

_Where is it?_

“Red?”

She doesn’t notice him until his voice flits over her shoulder. She cocks her head back, the ache in her chest swelling at the very sight of him. He’s stepping inside, curiosity melting to concern when he sees her sitting on the floor. His gaze falls to the box, to the items strewn around her. Realization hits.

“I…” He says it lamely, fiddles with his fingers. Tangling and untangling them, balling his hands. Unsure how to hold himself, whether or not he should approach. “Didn’t realize.”

“No, I was just…”

Just questioning herself and their circumstance, again and again, why, why, _why?_

“Yeah,” he finishes for her.

Careful with one another.

It occurs to her that they’ve spent so much time separate in their grief that they haven’t managed to shoulder much of it together. This is the first, in months, that they’ve been faced with evidence of their son’s existence. This is the closest they’ve come to talking about him, to seeing him again. These pictures, they’re the only true pieces of him left—

 

 

_His remnants, scattered on the floor. The ashes stain the carpet, and the full extent of what she’s done weighs on her. Tears and apology follows, and she’s burying her face in his chest as she trembles along with him._

_Not her fault, he assures. Over and over. It’s not her fault. She’d simply lost her head._

_It’s okay, he says, but it sounds empty to her ears._

_Cleaning up’s the worst of it._

_The day of packing they had planned gives way to plucking up broken urn pieces, to trashing torn fabric and fluff, broken toys and décor. The ashes are salvaged the best they can manage, pooling in each of their palms. Heavy, coarse powder that seems so unsettling and comforting at the same time._

_He’d lived, he’d lived, he’d lived within her._

_He’d lived within them both, in heart and memory._

_Why isn’t that enough?_

 

—and can these ever be enough?

“One’s missing.” The words are on her lips before she can stop herself, and he arches a brow in response.

“What?”

“One of the pictures, it’s missing.” Turning to face him now, setting the photo in her hand back in the box. “The very first one the nurse took. You were holding him, remember?”

“Ah… Borrowed it.”

“Oh?”

“I figured, y’know, with it…with it getting so close.” Still careful. Not looking at her. He trails fingers through his hair. “I wanted to get it framed. Something nice. Just wasn’t sure about the dimensions, so I thought… I dunno, I just thought. I didn’t think you’d be—”

“Hey.”

It’s the softness in her voice that makes him crack.

It’s slow, the way he falters the moment she pushes herself to her feet, turns to pull him near. She winds her arms around his neck, eyes slipping as he breathes in, breathes out. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and hugs her waist, tightly. Holding on, holding himself steady.

She whispers, “I miss him too.”

Shaky reply. “Yeah.”

It’s a wonder they’ve survived this long. It’s a wonder he’s gotten this far, putting up a strong front for her sake and his own.

“Did you find one yet, a frame?”

He shakes his head. All of him, shaking. Fighting back tears.

“Can I come with you when you look? I’d like to.”

Fighting back tears and failing.

He’s needed this. For so long, he’s needed this. She’s cried all she could, but his are a first. His are release. It’s enough, she thinks. It has to be enough.

_I miss him, I miss him._

It still hurts, will always hurt.

But they can start picking up the pieces together.


End file.
